Belle's Secret Page 8

  Isabella felt her ribs clench around her chest. “That guy?” Her voice squeaked. She cleared her throat. Was this on the front page of the local paper or something? How on earth did Elsa know about that? She hadn’t even been at the wedding.

  Elsa’s freckled face crinkled and her red curls bobbed on her shoulders. “Serenity told me. And she may have mentioned something about kissing as well.” Elsa’s tongue poked a cheek out, full and knowing. “I hear he’s rather nice.”

  “I was doing my bit for Wirralong tourism if you must know.” Isabella was pitching for casual and carefree. “He came especially for the wedding. A friend of Amanda’s husband. Or something.”

  “Tourism. Sure.” Elsa laughed. “I want the whole story tonight. And don’t worry. You’re secret fling is safe with me.”

  Isabella’s skin goose bumped.

  “I’m very practised at keeping secrets,” Elsa said. “It’s the hairdresser’s code, you know. What happens in the salon stays in the salon. I’ll see you tonight. Bring chocolate!”

  Isabella waved Elsa out and the bell above the door tinkled as the heavy wooden door closed behind her. Outside, Wirralong was slowly coming to life. Soon, the morning crowd would arrive in the town’s coffee shops and tourists would be sauntering the streets. Contractors’ vehicles would hit just before midday, their drivers looking for an early lunch. Isabella had grown to know the rhythm of the town in the past twelve months and had grown to love the place, just as she treasured Smart Ladies’ Supper Club. She’d been so grateful that Maggie had included her when she’d arrived. Maggie understood implicitly that a woman needed other women. They were tight. They’d shared intimacies, secrets, stories of men and love and heartbreak and great sex and no sex.

  But Isabella hadn’t worked up the courage to tell them about the greatest sex she’d ever had. Because what had come after had been the worst, most shameful thing she’d ever done in her life. And there seemed to be no reconciling that best and that worst in her head.

  Isabella laid her hand over her smooth white mouse and turned back to her spreadsheet. In the quiet cool she worked solidly for hours, entering, tallying, clicking onto her banking website and transferring payments in and out. When she looked up from the screen it was already mid-afternoon. She realised she hadn’t had lunch, but didn’t feel hungry. Instead, she brewed another pot of coffee and came back to her desk.

  That gorgeous American you were dancing with on Saturday night.

  Elsa’s words from earlier that morning pounded in her head and she thought about Harry all over again. He was somewhere close, right here in Wirralong. And then she remembered their wedding night and dancing with him on Saturday at the wedding and all those thoughts led her down a new rabbit hole of thinking about weddings and promises and commitment and love and the whole damn thing. Hurriedly, she opened a new Word document. There were words buzzing in her head that might be the germ of an idea for some new wedding vows. She liked offering some themes to her brides and grooms, especially for those who were shy or not very confident about their own ability to put into words how much they loved the person they were about to marry. Sometimes it was a phrase, sometimes just a sentence.

  She hovered her fingers over the keyboard and she began to type.

  The day I met you, everything changed.

  She sat back in her chair, staring at the words on the screen. Oh God, that was awful. Such a cliché. It was no better than a line inside a cheap Valentine’s Day card. She backspaced to delete it. She tried again to capture the essence of what she was feeling.

  My life was forever changed the day you walked into …

  And then her fingers flew, with an idea only they seemed to understand.

  My heart was forever changed the day you walked into that bar in Vegas and swept me off my feet.

  Isabella stopped, her mouth agape. Where had that come from?

  The bell above her front door tinkled. She looked up.

  It was Harry. How fitting.

  The clench across her chest pulled as tight as a wedding garter on a bride’s thigh. She breathed deep. He couldn’t possibly have the divorce papers already, could he? Wasn’t it still yesterday today across the Pacific?

  “Hey,” he said, his baritone echoing around the room. The historic building had once been a mercantile stocking everything from ribbons to boots, and the high ceilings made every word echo and feel portentous.

  Belle shot to her feet. She hurriedly lifted the black-rimmed glasses from her nose and put them carefully on the table next to her keyboard. She smoothed down the black skirt that had ridden up her thighs, and tugged at the bottom of her smart white shirt.

  “Hello,” she managed, clearing her throat.

  Harry walked right by the twin leather Chesterfields positioned across from each other and a floral upholstered arm chair nearby. He avoided the antique-looking coffee table, with two piles of neatly stacked bridal magazines and a small bunch of flowers in a white vase. His shoes clicked a languid rhythm on the polished timber floorboards, a reflection of his loping stride. He didn’t take his eyes off her for a millisecond, not to take in the long, narrow room, its soft white walls, the pressed tin ceilings in the same colour, or the four matching antique glass shades on brass fittings that hung low from the ceiling.

  By the time he reached her desk, her mouth was as dry as one of the dirt roads out of Wirralong. She held her fingers together in a tight ball and hoped like hell he didn’t walk around the other side of her desk and look at her computer screen. He was wearing jeans, a crisp white polo shirt and dark glasses, which he tipped to the top of his head as he approached.

  “Wedding Belles,” he said, an eyebrow quirking as he kinked his head back over his shoulder to the words emblazoned on her front window.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Belle. Funny you should use that name.”

  “It’s a play on words,” she answered nervously. “Wedding bells, like church bells.”

  “I got that.” He paused. “Belle.”

  “Oh.” The lie about her name. He would never forgive her for that. Oh, who was she kidding? He would never forgive her anything.

  He crossed his arms over his chest, studied her face. “You’ve got a shopfront as a marriage officiant?”

  “We call them celebrants in Australia.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Same question, though. Why do you need an office?”

  She smoothed down her skirt. It was unconsciously done, but his eyes darted to her thighs. How could she forget that she’d had those thighs wrapped around him once? “Yes. This is my office. It’s where I meet with couples, write my services, do my paperwork. The local council has a scheme going to support local businesses, as a way to reinvigorate Wirralong.”

  Harry glanced around. “You saying you get cheap rent?”

  She sighed. Wedding Belles was just breaking even and if she’d had to pay rent on these premises she wouldn’t survive. To say she was heavily subsidised was an understatement. She’d won her case for a place in the scheme by arguing that with a spot on the main street, somewhere there was foot traffic and tourists driving by and romantic holidaymakers up from Melbourne who might get engaged on their weekend away, that they might then decide to come back here to do the deed.

  “It’s a business proposition. I get free rent. This town was prosperous once, during the gold rush back in the 1860s. That’s why we have all these beautiful buildings. A lot of people made a lot of money and business was good.”

  “It’s a nice spot.”

  “It is. But things have changed. The wool growers left the district and then the drought hit. A lot of work’s been done to reinvigorate the place, to bring people back.”

  “Like happy couples who want to get married under the gum trees with kookaburras singing in the trees.”

  “Yes. Maggie’s worked hard to provide that experience. You should have seen the Woolshed before she renovated it. It stank of sheep.” She wrinkled her n
ose. “Not good.”

  Harry smiled and maybe even chuckled. Then forced it away by pulling his lips together and replacing the happy expression with a frown. Keep talking, Isabella willed herself. Keep talking and he’ll be distracted and maybe then he won’t remember that he hates me.

  She took a quick glance at her screen. Her words were still there, taunting her. My heart was forever changed the day you walked into that bar in Vegas and swept me off my feet.

  Harry slipped his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’ve just been for a walk up and down the street. It’s a cool little town.”

  “I love it. I’ve made friends—good friends—and I think I’ve found my little place in the ecosystem here. It’s a bit different to other places I’ve lived, that’s for sure.”

  “But you’re a country girl, aren’t you? The Coonawarra.”

  Isabella pulled back her shoulders. “Yes. How do you know that?”

  “You told me. Back in Vegas. Larry the Lobster, remember?”

  They shared a long look. It was more than enough time for Isabella to see hurt in his eyes, the hurt she’d caused. The hurt she would take back in a millisecond if she could.

  The bell over the front door tinkled, startling Isabella. A man and a woman had entered her office, and were looking in her direction.

  The man removed his hat and held it to his chest. “We’re sorry to interrupt, young lady. We can come back another time when you’re not busy.”

  Isabella glanced at Harry, who took a step back from the desk, as if to say, don’t mind me.

  “Not at all,” she called out as she walked over to them. They seemed to be in their mid-sixties, and were smiling and holding hands.

  “You must be Isabella,” the woman said. Her hair was short and silver and she was dressed immaculately in a pale pink linen shirt and billowing white linen pants.

  “I am.” Isabella held out a hand and shook hands. The man’s hand was next. It was warm and strong, calloused. He was a country bloke, she could feel it.

  “Isabella Martenson. How can I help you today?”

  The woman looked up at her man and he gazed down into her eyes in a manner that was straight out of Hollywood. Only real. So real it brought tears to Isabella’s eyes.

  “I’m Carl Thompson and this here’s my fiancée, Bette. We’re planning on getting hitched.”

  Bette let out a girlish laugh.

  Isabella fought the tug of envy in her chest, and swallowed it down.

  “I think you’ve come to the right place. Please, won’t you have a seat.”

  Chapter Nine

  Harry watched Belle and tried to be unobtrusive, which he’d discovered was out and out impossible when you were six foot four and spoke with an accent that stood out like, what had the winemaker at Matthews Winery said the day before – dog’s balls?

  He’d learnt a few Aussie expressions when he’d been working on the vintage in the Coonawarra all those years ago, but that one took the cake.

  So he hung back and waited. And watched some more. Isabella led the old folks to the twin leather sofas right by the front window and he noted she remained standing while they made themselves comfortable. She bent, lifted a folder from a pile of magazines on the coffee table and passed it to the older lady who began flicking through the pages. She was warm, chatty, professional and put the couple at ease with a smile and a laugh.

  It hit him in that moment. That was the Belle he knew: the woman he’d married. There was a lightness about her stance, a spark in her eyes, a curving smile on her lips that still struck him right in the solar plexus, like the finest cabernet sauvignon when it slid down your throat, warming you from the inside. And that gave him a sign that the Belle he’d married was still there, maybe buried deep.

  The woman he’d married did exist, and he was asking for a divorce.

  She suddenly turned and headed back over to him. Her smile had gone. Her eyes dark and guarded. Yep, Belle was gone and Isabella was back.

  She lowered her voice. “I really have to talk with this couple. They’re planning to get married at Easter.”

  “Nice,” Harry replied.

  She could barely look at him, her eyes darting back to her desk and her computer.

  “They seem like good people.”

  She cleared her throat and crossed her arms. Was she pissed at him or nervous? He was finding it hard to tell. “They’re both in their seventies, each of them widowed for more than a decade. They met at the local bowls club and there you go. He proposed yesterday and she said yes. They don’t want to wait another day.”

  “It happens quick for some people,” he said.

  Her stern face became something else. Wistful. No, it was sad and that look sucker-punched him.

  “I’m sorry. I have to get back …”

  “Sure. I’ll go.”

  “Was there something in particular you …” Belle stopped, lowered her voice. “Do you have any papers or anything you need me to sign?”

  “No, not yet. I was passing by and thought I’d stop in. That’s all. I’ll let you get on with your work.”

  She half smiled. “Thank you. You’ll let me know, won’t you?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. Frustration warred with anger and then battled some with heartache. His past year, encapsulated right there. “Sure. I know where you are.”

  “Yes, you do.” Then she looked to the ceiling. “One black, and one white tea,” she murmured to herself and walked past him to the rear of the office and through a doorway to what he guessed was a kitchen.

  She was gone again. Harry glanced at her desk, figuring he might find a business card with her phone number and email address on it, so he could get in touch with her to arrange all the formalities, especially if he couldn’t get this wrapped up before he flew out on Sunday. A plastic business card holder sat on her desk on the other side of her computer, so he walked around, pushed her chair in so he didn’t walk into it, and reached out to slip one out of the holder. He wrote his name and phone number on it and laid it on the desk next to the card holder.

  That’s when he saw the words on the open document on her screen.

  My heart was forever changed the day you walked into that bar in Vegas and swept me off my feet.

  What the actual fuck?

  Harry’s chest pounded. He read it again, so fast it was only a glance, but he needed to commit her words to memory. He slipped Belle’s business card in the pocket of his shorts, then strode across the room to the front door. His head felt like a cork on a just-about-to-be-popped bottle of vintage champagne. He gripped the long brass handle on the front door and stopped. He turned to the couple sitting on one of the leather sofas.

  “Excuse me, folks,” he said.

  They looked up at him.

  “Good luck to you on your engagement.”

  “Why, thank you,” the woman said, patting the old man’s knee as she leaned towards him, their shoulders touching. “I’ve found myself a keeper.”

  The man lifted his face and smiled. “Sometimes you just know it’s the right bloody thing to do, don’t you, Bette? When you meet the lady of your dreams, you’ve got to move fast and hang on tight.” The couple turned to each other and smiled so hard they forgot he was even there.

  Their words swirled around Harry’s head as he headed back up Main Street to the bed and breakfast.

  *

  When Isabella walked past, a tray in her hands with the cups of tea and a plate of biscuits on it, she took a moment to glance at her computer. The screen was black, in sleep mode. That was good. Very good. She put the tray on the edge of her desk, leaned over and clicked on her keyboard. Light spilled from her screen. She scrolled her mouse and pointed up to the close command. One click and the document would be gone.

  One click and she could wish him away.

  One click and she could bury those feelings forever.

  She hovered.

  Then she saw his name and a phone number on the
back of one of her business cards. She picked it up and stared at his name. Five letters. Nice handwriting.

  She clicked save instead.

  *

  “More champagne?” Elsa tilted a bottle above Isabella’s empty glass, her freckled face set in a question.

  “Hit me, please.” The bubbles fizzed and popped in the glass as Elsa filled it and then she set the bottle back in the ice bucket, resuming her place on the plush sofa.

  After finishing up for the day in the office, all her paperwork complete and her filing done, her Instagram account updated with some photos of the Star Wars wedding (already at 1,200 likes), she headed home and changed into something more casual—a flowing skirt and singlet top, with a chunky necklace—then walked up to Maggie’s.

  Isabella kicked off her sandals, tucked her feet under her butt, and breathed. The bubbles were just what she needed: crisp and sweet and delicious and the company was just what she needed too.

  “I scored a new client today,” she announced, holding up her glass in a toast. The champagne was always delicious because, as she had guessed when she’d moved to Wirra Station, Smart Ladies’ Supper Club wasn’t really about supper at all.

  “Go you.” Elsa leaned across the table and clinked glasses with Isabella.

  “Was it the older couple?” Maggie asked as she dipped a cracker into a dish of basil and cashew dip. “Carl and Bette?”

  Isabella nodded as she sipped.

  “Oh, aren’t they lovely?” Maggie exclaimed. “I had a meeting with them today about having a little party here. They want an intimate family gathering, with their children, grandchildren and old friends. I suggested the old gum tree down by the creek, with an arbour covered with white roses and jasmine. Thirty people, small but sweet. Once we’d nutted all that out, I sent them straight on to you.”

  “And they loved my ideas for their vows,” Isabella said. “Something simple and heartfelt.”